


early in the morning i hear on your piano

by narrativefoiltrope



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Early Mornings, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Gift Fic, and then plays a duet with her musical girlfriend, guess who remembers how to play the piano
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29517990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narrativefoiltrope/pseuds/narrativefoiltrope
Summary: an early morning featuring contemplative (deepromance!)morgan, charlotte playing the warehouse piano, and a duet that surprises them both.
Relationships: Detective & Morgan (The Wayhaven Chronicles), Female Detective & Morgan (The Wayhaven Chronicles)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	early in the morning i hear on your piano

**Author's Note:**

  * For [@queerdetectiveblue on tumblr](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=%40queerdetectiveblue+on+tumblr).



Morgan woke up early. 

Her body awakened before her brain, eyes opening without yet seeing and falling on the form next to her. It took her a second to process the fact that she wasn’t alone. 

It wasn’t the first time, or even months-worth of first-times, that Charlotte had stayed over in Morgan’s room at the warehouse, but each time Morgan woke up before her—watched the slow, even rise and fall of her chest, heard the gentle snores she occasionally emitted (even sleeping, Charlotte was musical; a trait Morgan would’ve found annoying in anyone else—and maybe sometimes in Charlotte too)—she was struck by a sense of—

—well, admittedly, surprise at first. Not like she was used to sharing her space with somebody else, and it was even more shocking that she actually liked doing so. But the initial shock, lasting for shorter and shorter periods the more and more time they spent together, was always quickly overwritten with an intense and pervasive sense of calm.

Morgan felt a smile tug on the corner of her lips as she watched Charlotte mumble something in her sleep. Taking in the sight of her dark hair splayed across the pillow, a warmth bloomed in Morgan’s chest. She was the most goddamn striking woman Morgan had ever seen: Tawny skin a bronze in the dark of the early morning, long limbs draped over the bed and tangled with Morgan’s own. An errant curl flopped into Charlotte’s face, making her nose twitch, and Morgan gently swept it away—something she wouldn’t have done months ago, but something she did automatically now. 

Morgan eased out of bed, careful not to disturb her girlfriend in the process. She grabbed a sweater laying on the back of a chair—slightly too big for her, one of Charlotte’s; Morgan grumbled at the reminder of Charlotte’s height advantage—and headed to the roof. 

It wasn’t light out yet which suited her just fine. It was quieter like this, less overwhelming. 

…Didn’t bother her as much to be away from Charlotte. 

She had long recognised that the other woman made life easier, softer, even as Charlotte matched her sarcasm, challenged Morgan as much as Morgan challenged her, met (and sometimes surpassed) Morgan’s own innuendos. Morgan loved that about Charlotte, the contradictions she offered.

And yeah, she loved her. 

It wasn’t like Morgan thought about it all that much. It was a fact. 

But sometimes when she was feeling particularly contemplative—like now, apparently—she would think of how they got here. Neither wanted a relationship. Both of them were adamant about wanting to keep things casual. Physical. No strings attached. 

And now, well. Morgan was in Charlotte’s sweater, breathing in her scent that lingered on the expensive material. 

(Whatever. She looked as good in her girlfriend’s clothes as she did in anything else.)

As the sun started to break over the horizon, turning the sky lavender and making the rooftop that much more uncomfortable for Morgan, she caught wind of a few whispered notes on a piano. 

Charlotte was awake.

Morgan stretched and ran a hand through her hair before heading back inside, winding her way through the warehouse to the living room. 

The closer she got to the sound, now clearly underscored with the bassline of Charlotte’s heart, the calmer she felt. A salve for the early morning turbulence she could never escape—the time when the world became just that much more goddamn annoying.

When she reached the living room, the door was ajar. Morgan pushed it open far enough to make the hinge creak, letting Charlotte know she was there, and waited for the tell-tale nod of her girlfriend’s head that signalled “come in.” 

…Charlotte was evidently lost in her music. She didn’t appear to immediately register Morgan’s presence. 

But Morgan wasn’t going to complain about getting to drink in the sight of Charlotte. She rested her hip against the door and waited, watched.

She watched the elegant bend of the other woman’s neck over the piano, long dark curls piled on top of her head exposing the nape. Her head bowed and nodded ever so slightly in time with the blues song she plucked away at. 

The music came to a crescendo under Charlotte’s practiced fingers. Morgan couldn’t be sure, but from the position of her girlfriend—her total abandon, the sway of her body, the dreaminess of her keystrokes—she guessed that Charlotte’s eyes were closed. 

Charlotte was never more goddamn beautiful than she was when she lost herself in a song.

And Morgan was lost too.

Overcome with an intense sense of peace despite the almost mournful timbre of the song. The notes of the piano and the beat of Charlotte’s heart enveloped her, landed on her skin like a caress. 

She was starting to catch on to the fact that if Charlotte’s presence offered her peace—dulled her senses, made blunt the sharp edges of her reality—Charlotte’s music offered her sanctuary. 

And then Morgan’s hands twitched. Her fingers moved on their own accord as if skating over invisible keys. 

Compelled forward by some unknown urge, ancient and hazy, Morgan strided over to the piano. 

Charlotte stilled her hands and opened her eyes as Morgan approached, a lazy smile gracing her lips. “Took you long enough. I thought you were going to stand in the door all day, _solecito.”_

Morgan shrugged. “Didn’t want to disturb you, sweetheart,” she said as she slid onto the piano bench next to Charlotte. She dragged her eyes over the other woman slowly before meeting Charlotte’s gaze. “Besides, I was enjoying the view.” 

Charlotte offered her a catlike grin, taking in the sight of Morgan in turn. “But you denied me the pleasure of this view.” Her eyes lingered on the sweater—her sweater—covering Morgan’s sleepwear. “It looks good on you.”

“It would look better on the floor.”

The other woman threw her head back and laughed before bending over to capture Morgan’s lips in a slow, warm kiss, languorous like the morning itself.

“I agree,” Charlotte replied when she broke away. “But my hands are itching to play right now.” She nodded her head towards the piano, but raised a brow—a challenge to see if Morgan would take the innuendo bait.

Morgan didn’t. Instead, a small frown appeared on her brow. 

After a beat, Charlotte asked, “Everything okay?”

She nodded, unsure how to explain the compulsion she felt to play, to feel the keys under her hands, fingers dancing scales. So she did what was more comfortable, more natural, instead: She moved. 

Morgan caught Charlotte’s left hand, pressed a kiss to the pulse point on her wrist. Then placed it firmly back on the piano and rested her own hand next to it. 

The keys were warm to the touch, still bearing the heat of Charlotte’s hands. 

…This—the keys, her sitting on a piano bench, hand perched—felt familiar. As if some part of her recognised the instrument, even without the mark of her girlfriend. 

“Wanna accompany me?” Charlotte prompted. “Just tap this key here”—she indicated—“on the second and fourth beats I play.” 

After a short demonstration, Morgan nodded. 

They began: A slow jazz song. Charlotte kept time with her foot and smiled encouragingly at Morgan’s one-key accompaniment. 

The longer Charlotte played, the more familiar the song became. Where the hell she would’ve heard it, Morgan didn’t know; it wasn’t as if she listened to jazz (or music that wasn’t played by Charlotte herself—and this was not a song she remembered hearing from the other woman). 

Morgan’s hand once again seemed to move of its own accord. She added in a few other notes, earning her a shocked but pleased, “Alright, _solecito_ , I see you!” from Charlotte along with a brilliant grin. 

Charlotte’s enthusiasm spilled over, her hands the conduit, adding in some improvised flourishes. Morgan matched her and added her own spin on the song (where the _hell_ had she heard this before?). 

Eventually both women lost themselves to the music: Fingers expertly (on both their parts) navigating the piano, echoing and building off of each other’s improvisations, bodies leaning in towards each other but bent over the instrument. 

Morgan didn’t know how to play the piano, yet here she was, playing the piano. (What the—?)

It could’ve lasted for minutes or hours—Morgan wasn’t sure. She was far too absorbed in the feeling of her fingers on the keys, the notes they emitted, and Charlotte next to her, softening the morning while bringing this new (was it really new?) sensation into sharper relief. 

When they finally reached the natural conclusion of the song, they sat in silence, hesitant to break the moment. 

Charlotte spoke first. “I didn’t know you could play the piano.”

“I didn’t either.” 

That response earned Morgan a bright laugh and a kiss on the cheek. Charlotte nestled into her neck and Morgan wrapped an arm around her, drawing her close. 

“You’re a natural! Guess I’ll have to look up some duets then,” Charlotte said. 

“Guess so, sweetheart.”

It didn’t matter if this—the piano, her knowledge of it, the nagging familiarity of the song—confused, even (maybe) unsettled, Morgan; the only thing that mattered, the only tangible thing, was the smile on Charlotte’s face as she agreed to keep playing.

**Author's Note:**

> this is a gift fic for @queerdetectiveblue on tumblr as part of the loveinwayhaven secret valentine exchange! i really enjoyed writing her detective, charlotte, with morgan.
> 
> other notes:  
> the title comes from the robert louis stevenson poem, "early."
> 
> "solecito" is a spanish colloquial equivalent of "sunshine" (thank you, as always, to @qbrujas for your translation help <3).
> 
> this fic grew out of charlotte's musicality but also a headcanon (that i'm like.....90% sure is going to be actually canon) i and many others have that sees M as a jazz musician pre-turning; they can play the bass, the saxophone, and the piano, but i wonder if they actually are aware they can, hence morgan's confusion in the second half.
> 
> come yell about twc with me on tumblr @narrativefoiltrope!


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